in clear view I could hear you
by devirnis
Summary: "He fails again, again, and again. With Sam's help, he takes that failure and lets it fuel him." Between Gears 3 and 4, Baird starts a company and a relationship.


**[in clear view I could hear you]**

When Baird originally invited Sam and Cole over for dinner tonight, he had assumed they'd be celebrating. He had a meeting with his first set of investors earlier in the day and, perhaps a little optimistically, assumed he'd be walking out of that meeting with the funding necessary to start up his pet project.

The downside of all of Baird's years of unparalleled success is that he's never learned to deal with failure. He at least had the presence of mind to shake hands with the suits at the end of the meeting instead of throwing his papers in their faces like he very much wanted to, but that doesn't help the feelings of bewilderment and shame twisting into knots under his ribs. How could they not have wanted to invest in his company? Hadn't his proposed inventions been astounding enough to pique their interest?

Evidently not.

Cole arrives first, his enthusiastic smile dimming slightly when Baird opens the door to his apartment. Instead of asking any questions, Cole holds up the bottle of wine he's brought with him and Baird nods emphatically. That's as close to they get to discussing his pitch meeting and for that, Baird loves his best friend even more.

Sam, however, doesn't know when to leave well-enough alone. She at least uses what little tact she possesses to not bring up what is clearly a sensitive issue during a somewhat subdued dinner, but when she hangs back as Cole makes his excuses to leave, Baird knows it's because she wants to _talk about it_.

Oh joy.

Baird turns around after closing the door behind Cole, steeling himself for Sam's inevitable mockery. However, instead of Sam sitting there with a jeering smile, she's holding a beer towards him. He takes it mostly out of instinct, and manages to be distantly annoyed that Sam's evidently gone rooting through his fridge while he wasn't looking.

"Something to say?" he asks.

"Gus told me you had a pitch meeting this morning," Sam says, and then takes a swig from her own bottle. "I can guess it didn't go great, given your refusal to even allude to the subject."

"Diving straight into it, I see," he grumbles under his breath. "Yes! Your powers of observation are unparalleled. I did _not_ secure funding and I'm really fucking stoked about it."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Sam says.

That brings him up short. Baird's mouth pops open to bark out a snarky reply, only to snap shut again as he processes what Sam had actually said. Scorn, he's expecting—not _sympathy_. It makes him pause and briefly re-evaluate their entire relationship.

"You're sorry?" Baird practically splutters. He doesn't mean to sound so skeptical, he's just… surprised.

Sam rolls her eyes at him. " _Of course_ I'm sorry. I know how much you wanted that to go well."

 _Holy shit, did I trip and fall into an alternate dimension or something?_

He's still stupidly wary, waiting for Sam to say "just kidding!" and laugh in his face, but he is aware on some level that he's projecting his insecurities. The logical part of his brain looks over the last few years since the end of the Locust War and reluctantly admits that making fun of his failure isn't in line with Sam's character.

Sam must interpret his silence as implicit consent, and she gestures to the living room. Baird stands in place for a moment, debating being stubborn just for the sake of it, before sighing and slumping after her. Taking a seat on his ridiculously expensive sofa, Sam looks at him expectantly.

"Why don't you go over your pitch with me and I can give you some suggestions?"

Baird huffs, annoyed. He's worked on this speech for _months_ ; what advice can Sam give him in an evening that could be even slightly helpful?

As if sensing his thoughts, Sam frowns and leans back in her seat. "Come on. It can't hurt."

 _What the hell._ "Fine. But if you interrupt me before I'm done –"

"I got it, hold all comments and questions until the end." The smirk on her face as she sasses him is both annoying and endearing. When did he start noticing the curve of her lips?

"Okay." He clears his throat. "Gentlemen. I'm here to apply for a loan to start a company …"

* * *

When he's finished, he spreads his arms wide, a self-satisfied grin on his face. It's a brilliant pitch. The guys he met with yesterday were just idiots who couldn't see a good idea if it danced naked in front of them.

Sam, however, has one eyebrow raised and an almost pained expression. "That's what you said in the meeting?"

"Yes?" His confidence is slowly crumbling under her gaze.

"Right. Well, I've got a few pointers."

"I'm all ears," he says sullenly.

To her credit, Sam doesn't even bat an eye at his tone. "First thing: maybe don't call the blokes potentially loaning you thousands of dollars _morons_."

"I didn't _call_ them morons, I said they'd be morons if they didn't fund –"

She waves her hand dismissively. "I'm vetoing all uses of the word 'moron'. Nobody likes being told they're an idiot if they don't do something."

"But they _are_ –"

"Ah-ah! Just trust me on this, would you? Also, you can't just come out and say that the Fabricator is too big to fail."

"Why not? Once I get a prototype working, any id—any _body_ could see that it's game changing."

"I know it's bloody brilliant. But you need moolah to get the materials to build the damn thing, and if you say it's too big to fail you sound _too_ cocksure. Like you haven't thought through all the outcomes because you're an arrogant prick. Let _them_ conclude that it's ground-breaking tech."

Begrudgingly, Baird admits to himself that Sam might have a point. Of course, he can't _tell_ her she has a point or there'll be no living with her after this. So to speak.

Sam doesn't seem put off by his dour silence. She's probably used to it at this point. After a few moments, she gets to her feet and comes to stand in front of him.

"Hey," she says, laying a hand on his upper arm. "Do you have a written version?"

Baird pointedly does not look at her hand where it's touching him; if he calls attention to it, he's afraid she'll stop. "Yeah. Why?"

"Give me a copy and I'll do some editing tomorrow. Then you can have me over for dinner and we can go over it together."

Baird's stomach rolls at her suggestion—not unpleasantly. He decides not to examine that any further. "I guess you can't make it any worse."

"Your confidence, as always, is inspiring, darling," Sam jokes, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.

* * *

Baird takes Sam's suggestions under advisement and edits his pitch accordingly.

He doesn't convince the next group of investors, but the rejection is more encouraging this time – if that's even possible.

He fails again, again, and again. With Sam's help, he takes that failure and lets it fuel him.

She starts coming over more and more often. Especially after his meetings. They go over the pitch in detail when it's still fresh in his mind. She wants to know everything – a facial expression that changed during a particular line, how exactly they phrased their rejection, _everything_.

It's hard going. The months pass, lots of late nights working and refining and getting his speech _just right_. Some nights they go so late that Sam ends up sleeping on his couch. When Baird wakes in the mornings, Sam's always already gone back to base—the folded sheets left behind in her wake.

* * *

They work and they work and they work, and _finally_ it pays off. A bank agrees to loan Baird what he needs to he can start building the prototypes to his inventions. Proof of concept, he can do; he knows that once they get a glimpse of the first draft of his machines, the money won't stop.

Baird finally gets to have that celebratory dinner party. This time, he invites everyone. Sam and Cole, of course; Marcus and Anya, with their infant son in tow; Hoffman and Bernie make the trek out from Kashkur; Dizzy, Jace, Mathieson come, and even Yanik somehow manages to slip into Ephyra without much fuss.

It's a good night. The best Baird's had in a long time. Probably the best night since the war ended.

After dinner, they all end up squished onto his couch. Marcus and Anya entertain JD on the floor, while the rest of them jostle for space. Cole gets up at one point to swing JD around—much to the kid's delight and Anya's slight terror—and Sam plops easily into the spot beside Baird, still carrying on her conversation with Jace. Baird feels his face flush and he knows it has nothing to do with the alcohol.

One by one, people begin to leave. Yanik's visa – if you can even call it that – doesn't cover overnight stays, and Hoffman and Bernie have business with the First Minister in the morning. It's way past JD's bedtime, and Dizzy has to pick his girls up from a friend's party. Jace and Cole are the last to head out, beginning to turn sentimental as they wait for their cab to arrive. As Jace staggers out of the apartment, Cole gives Baird one last clap on the shoulder.

"You did good, baby. I'm proud of you."

Baird rolls his eyes, trying to stop the warm feeling of affection from making him say something stupid. Cole nods at him once, his ever-present grin as wide as Baird's ever seen it, and closes the door behind him.

Baird heads to the living room to collect the empty bottles scattered around the couch and coffee table, and then stands up to take them over to the recycling. When he turns to face the kitchen, he sees Sam there, apparently loading the dishwasher. It shouldn't surprise him that she'd be the last one to leave.

He thinks, _She's alarmingly familiar with my kitchen._

He thinks, _I guess it's not that terrible._

He thinks, _I don't want her to leave._

He thinks, _Shit._

His mind goes over the past few months of late nights, Sam there more often than not, helping him refine his requests for funding. He probably would have eventually secured a loan without her feedback, but it would have taken a lot longer. The evenings without her help were always the least productive; he couldn't see past his own bullshit.

He recalls the dinner parties over the years – at his place, or Cole's townhouse, or the Stroud estate – and always sitting near Sam at the table. Noticing his eye automatically searching for her in the room when they were mingling. The warmth of her body as she leaned against him for support when he attempted to bundle her into a taxi after one too many glasses of wine.

He remembers all the times when he's been so absorbed in a project and looks up, mildly disoriented to realize Sam isn't there every day, however it might seem—and the second where he lets himself feel disappointed before viciously stuffing that emotion back into the depths of apathy.

He thinks again, _Shit._

The bottles clink loudly against the granite countertops as he sets them down. He stands directly behind her and clears his throat.

Sam turns around, takes one look at his face, and a soft smile spreads across her lips. Not for the first time, Baird wonders if she's somehow developed a line of communication straight to his inner thoughts, because he thinks he knows exactly what's going to happen just from the set of her shoulders.

"Yeah, okay," she says.

The first kiss is tentative, like he's waiting for her brain to catch up and shove him away. She doesn't. Suddenly her hands are on him, one gripping the back of his neck, the other fisting the front of his shirt as she drags him closer. Baird flails for a moment, overwhelmed by the rapid escalation of intensity, but he gets with the program pretty quick when she swipes her tongue across his mouth.

He crowds Sam up against the counter, trying to get as close to her as the laws of physics will allow. It isn't enough, not with all the layers of clothing between them, but then she parts her legs so Baird can jam a thigh in there and rub his dick up against her hip and oh fuck yes, that's more like it. He ruts up against her, feeling like he's back in his teenage years instead of pushing forty, trying to chase the sensation of pleasure coiling low in his stomach. Sam's mouth slides off his, trailing kisses along his stubbled jaw and down his neck and oh _shit_ but he can't help the way a low growl rumbles in the back of his throat as he tries to catch his breath.

Then, abruptly, she pulls away and says, "Hang on."

"What?" Baird asks, his voice already breathy, and he grips the back of her arms to try and keep her in place.

"Not that this isn't totally grouse, but I happen to know for a fact that you own a very large bed since I helped you move the mattress."

"Good point," he says, grabbing Sam by the wrist and making a beeline for the bedroom.

She laughs the whole way, even louder when he nearly trips over the area rug in his haste to get them to his bed as quickly as possible. "Eager, are we?"

Baird doesn't give her the satisfaction of an answer, although the way he kicks the door shut with gusto and steers her towards the bed isn't exactly subtle. Now that he's had his hands and mouth on her, he isn't thinking straight, doesn't want to stop. Sam's still grinning when her back hits the bed and she bounces. The sight of her surrounded by his sheets does things to Baird's chest; he has no interest in deciphering that at the moment, though, because he's so turned on he thinks he might die if he doesn't get them both off soon.

Trying to get his pants off and rummage around in the bedside drawer for a condom probably isn't the most graceful thing Baird's ever done in his life, but he's always been good at multitasking. He fishes out a foil wrapper at the same time he pulls a leg free of his jeans and grins triumphantly. When he turns back to the bed, he sees that Sam's already stripped down to her bra. (He takes a moment to mourn that he missed the show, but decides expediency is the best choice at the moment.)

Sam unclasps her bra and flings it across the room; Baird reciprocates by shedding his shirt and boxers. Without a word, Sam pulls him in for another kiss and takes the condom from his slack grip. She rolls it on his dick before he can protest – but the sensation of her fingers encompassing him makes his brain momentarily short-circuit. This is happening. _Really_ happening. Not a fantasy for him to feel embarrassed about later – tangible, inescapable reality.

It's both exhilarating and terrifying.

Baird pushes her down on her back and slips a hand between her legs. She's wet already; it makes his stomach swoop, but he gets to work. Sam finally pulls away from his mouth to suck in a hitched breath. "I always knew you'd be good with your fingers."

He smirks at her, projecting cocksure satisfaction.

"Yes, you're very impressive," Sam huffs. "Now would you shag me already?"

"Well, since you asked so politely…"

If his hands are shaking when he lines up their hips, Sam certainly won't be able to tell; she's keeping his gaze, intent. It should be petrifying, having her scrutinize him in this intimate moment, but for once Baird's instinct isn't to throw up as many walls as he can.

He pushes into her with one fluid movement, unable to keep a low groan from rumbling in the back of his throat. They find a rhythm pretty quickly, pulling each other rapidly towards the edge of something. It's perfection and agony all at once, everything he didn't know he'd wanted until this moment—Sam underneath him, gasping softly with every thrust. Distantly, he wonders how long they've both been waiting for this to happen. Sam offering to help him with his pitch, staying late into the night, sometimes staying over – the signals have been there for a while, he'd just been willfully ignorant. Why, he can't imagine for the life of him in this moment.

He'd love to invent a time machine and go back to beat some sense into his younger self.

"Wait, wait, wait," Sam gasps suddenly, pushing against his chest.

It takes every inch of Baird's not inconsiderable self-control to stop thrusting. "What," he growls out.

"I want to switch positions."

Baird groans as he slips free, and looks at the ceiling to take a few steadying breaths. When his eyes return to the bed, Sam is on her hands and knees facing away from him.

"Um?"

She looks over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised (and shit that shouldn't look so hot on her but it _does_ ). "Problem?"

"I thought women found this position… demeaning?"

Before tonight, Baird hadn't known it was possible for someone to roll their eyes fondly, but Sam does just that. "If I found this position demeaning, do you really think I'd be bent over pointing my bum at you?"

"Fair point," he concedes, grabbing her hips.

"Good onya."

He lines himself up and pushes back inside her, biting his lip at the friction as he finds his rhythm again. Baird watches, fascinated, as Sam's hands twist in his sheets and he wonders what other reactions he can coax out of her. Experimenting, he shifts the angle slightly, and is rewarded with a desperate sort of whimper that makes his head swim.

He bends forward, covering her back with his chest, and braces one forearm against the headboard. His other hand slides between her breasts, holding her close; her heart hammers away under his palm. Unable to help himself, Baird bites at her shoulder and Sam arches back into him. Her face twists toward his and, like a magnet, his lips are drawn to her mouth. They're barely kissing at this point; just panting against each other, the occasional messy, affectionate touch of lips.

"I'm going to –" Sam starts, before cutting herself off with another needy moan.

"Yeah," he says. It doesn't make sense but he's all out of braincells at this point. "Yeah, come on."

Baird's close too, knows it isn't going to last much longer, but he wants to make it count, wants her begging for it, wants everything. Pushing off the headboard, he pulls them both up into a sitting position. Sam's weight settles on his thighs, completely burying his cock inside of her, and for a second Baird never wants to move again.

"Come on, _please_ ," Sam gasps, tipping her head back to rest on his shoulder.

He fucks up into her and Sam whines high in her throat as she begins to clench around him.

Dangerous words rising in his throat threaten to spill out. Baird plants his mouth behind her ear, licking and sucking gently, and that seems to be what finally pushes Sam over the edge; she reaches back to grab his hair as her muscles spasm. He tips over the edge after her, heartbeat pounding in his ears and biting down on her neck to keep quiet.

When it's over, and the last shivery shocks of his release have worked their way out of his body, he slips his softening cock free. He quickly ties off the condom and tosses it vaguely in the direction of the trash can. Sam twists around in his lip to face him; the grind of her hips on his makes Baird grunt softly, but he settles his hands on her thighs anyway.

"You're gonna make me go bald if you keep pulling my hair like that," he gripes. There's not even a hint of real heat behind it.

Sam laughs quietly but doesn't answer, instead leaning in to kiss him softly. The kiss should be tame in comparison to what they've just done; Baird finds himself blushing all the same.

When Sam pulls back and opens her mouth, Baird has a moment of blind panic where he imagines her making excuses to leave. He's never had much of a filter between his thoughts and his mouth, especially after sex, and he blurts, "It's probably too late to call a cab."

"Is that an indirect way of asking me to stay the night?"

Baird's first instinct is to deny and deflect. _No_. He's evidently spent _years_ bottling up his emotions, so in denial that he hadn't realized his complicated feelings regarding Sam weren't strictly platonic until tonight. No way is he going to push this aside and risk her walking out.

 _Not just the night._

"Yeah," Baird says, laying her down underneath him. "Yeah, it is."


End file.
